Part 10

“This is a difficult case,” she said, “and in truth each seems more alarming than the last. It appears that marriage is a sea of perils great and terrible, and to escape shipwreck all but impossible. Possibly if Ha had not bought the concubine—but have none of my ladies a story of man’s fidelity? Is such a thing unknown?”

And even as she spoke a woman with a face like the dusk of the evening and eyes as its stars in clouds, broke in upon her words unmannerly but with such power that all turned to listen, forgetting even the Presence.

“My Princess, my beloved, hear now this last story, for these women have spoken of little things, but I will speak of great.

“It is known to you that when the King Rama ruled in Kosala and was thence driven for awhile into the wild woods, there went with him of her own choice and in utter devotion, his wife, young and lovely and noble, the Queen Sita. And when he entreated her to leave him because of the horror of the great woods and the wild beasts, and the evil spirits and hunger and poverty, she replied only: ‘How should I stay in the glorious city when my husband is gone? I count all evils as blessings when I am with him. Without him life is death. And if my prayer is refused I will enter the fire and await him in the Paradise to be.’

“So she followed Rama, clothed in poverty and in the wood she served him, unfaltering in piety and all wifely duty. And as the result of this nobility her beauty so grew that the very Gods, passing on their high errands would pause for joy to see her perfections.

“But on a certain day when the King was absent, the evil King of Lanka stole this Pearl, hoping to set it in his crown.

“Princess, it is not needful to tell the sorrows of Sita, the temptations she resisted nor the cruelties that could not break her pure will. Flawless in strength and brightness as the very spirit of the diamond was her faith. And when Rama at last, by the aid of the Gods, conquered the evil-doer, she sat beneath a tree, in poor array, trembling for joy to think that her head should lie once more upon her husband’s breast and her ear be gladdened with his praise for the fight she had fought alone in sorrow.

“So she stood before him and he sat upon his victorious throne and thus he spoke:

“‘Lady, my work is done. I have avenged my honour and the insult put upon me and my foe is broken. But mistake me not. It was for no love to you that I fought, but to uphold the dignity of my race. Your presence now hurts me as light hurts a diseased eye. Another man has seen your face unveiled. His hand has touched you. You have dwelt in his palace. You are no wife of mine. Go where you will. Do what you will. We are parted.’”

[And the Princess and all the ladies stared with great eyes to hear what the woman told.]

“And this before a great assembly. So, at first the Queen wept silently, because this shaft pierced her very heart. Then, drying her tears, she raised her fair head and answered:

“‘Is all my faithful love forgotten? It was hard for a weak woman to resist supernatural strength. Yet in all perils of death and shame I have been utterly chaste in soul and body, and no evil came near me, for in me there was none to meet it.’

“She paused and the King made no answer. And she said:

“‘If man deserts me the High Gods are faithful. Make ready the funeral pile. I will not live in this shame.’

“And it was done;—none daring to look in the King’s face, and he still silent. . . . So, circling her husband thrice in farewell reverence, the Queen entered the fire. And even as the flame lapped her feet, the Great Gods descended in radiant chariots plumed for the untrodden ways of the air, and the God of the Fire, who is the Purifier, took her by the hand and presented her to Rama, saying,

“‘Even as is my white flame purity, so is the purity of this Queen.’

“And he accepted her from the God’s hand.

“Princess, would not all the world believe that after this coming of the Gods this King would have honoured his Queen? Yet no.

“He knew her pure, but, since others whispered that another had seen her face, and who could tell?—again he dismissed her for in him as in all men, pride was mightier than love.

“And once more, Sita, standing before him and knowing this the end, made declaration of her chastity that all might hear. And suddenly transported beyond the weakness of a woman, she stood as one divine, perfect in high soul and nobility, and she said:

“‘Never has any thought that was not pure and chaste entered my heart, and as my heart so is my body. This have I said. And now, I beseech of the Earth, the Great Goddess, Mother of us all, that she will grant me a refuge, for I have none other.’

“And as she spoke these words, a very soft air, laden with coolness and sacred perfumes, stirred among them, and in the silence there arose from the earth a Throne and upon it the Mighty Mother of men and Gods, and she raised the Queen in her arms and set her upon the Throne that all might see her throned and glorious. And lo! for a moment she sat majestic, and the assembly hid their faces, and when they again raised them all was gone and only the common day was about them.

“But the King wept uncomforted knowing that never again by city or forest might he see that fair face, which being his own he had cast from him.”

And the woman paused, and all the ladies cried that this was the cruellest story of all, demanding that she be dismissed from the Presence as an offender. But the Princess sat submerged in thought, and the woman said softly:

“My Princess—my beloved,—the Gods rule. In all life is sorrow, whether in Kashmir or Jamu. But the Gods abide. In the hollow of Their hand lay this Queen, and in the darkness the King’s eyes could not pierce They smiled. Certainly she leaned on Their might and so walked content and what could man do to her? Fear not, my Princess. The Gods abide—whether in Kashmir or Jamu, and the earth is Their footstool. And this being so the life of a woman is her own, go where she will.”

And there fell a great silence and she who said this glided away and was gone. And presently the Princess rose in the midst of the women like a Queen, and she spoke:

“This is the truth. Fate is fate and love is love, and what we do is our own, and not the deeds of another. For that Queen I do not weep, but for the King who was blind to her glory. It is the valour of men that sends them forth to war, and it is the valour of women that puts their hearts in the hand of their husbands. And to me, since I have seen this portrait all other things are empty, and if he slay me still will I love him. For it is the High God, who is worshipped by many names, who has made the woman for the man and the man for the woman, and He abides unchanging in Unity and what He does is better than well.”

And as she spoke the colours faded on the mountains and on the lake the evening came with quiet feet.

THE WISDOM OF THE ORIENT A DIALOGUE AND A STORY

THE WISDOM OF THE ORIENT

A DIALOGUE AND A STORY

I

“I believe you take as long to dress as I do,” she said pettishly; “I call it neither more nor less than poaching when a man looks so well turned out. And a Poet, too! Well—you can sit down; I have twenty minutes free.”

She was dressed for a bridge party. Dressed—oh, the tilt of the hat over her delicate little nose; the shadow it cast over the liquid eyes, ambushing them, as it were, for the flash and spring upon the victim! But I was no victim—not I! I knew my young friend too well. She endured me more or less gladly. I sat at her feet and learned the ways of the sex, and turned them into verse, or didn’t, according to the mood of the minute. I had versified her more than once. She was a rondeau, a triolet, a trill—nothing more.

“Why mayn’t a poet look respectable as well as another?” I asked, dropping into a chair.

“Because it isn’t in the picture. You were much more effective, you folks, when you went about with long hair, and scowled, with a finger on your brows. But never mind—you’ve given us up and we’ve given you up, so it doesn’t matter what women think of you any more.”

“You never said a truer word!” I replied, lighting my cigarette at hers. “The connection between women and poetry is clean-cut for the time. As for the future—God knows! You’re not poetic any more. And it’s deuced hard, for we made you.”

“Nonsense. God made us, they say—or Adam—I never quite made out which.”

“It’s a divided responsibility, anyhow. For the Serpent dressed you. He knew his business there—he knew that beauty unadorned may do well enough in a walled garden and with only one to see and no one else to look at. But in the great world, and with competition—no! And you—you little fools, you’re undoing all his charitable work and undressing yourselves again. When I was at the dance the other night I thirsted for the Serpent to take the floor and hiss you a lecture on your stupidities.”

She pouted: “Stupidities? I’m sure the frocks were perfectly lovely.”

“As far as they went, but they didn’t go nearly far enough for the Serpent. And believe me, he knows all the tricks of the trade. He wants mystery—he wants the tremble in the lips when a man feels—‘I can’t see—I can only guess, and I guess the Immaculate, the Exquisite—the silent silver lights and darks undreamed of.’ And you—you go and strip your backs to the waist and your legs to the knees. No, believe me, the Dark Continent isn’t large enough; and when there is nothing left to explore, naturally the explorer ceases to exist.”

“I think you’re very impertinent. Look at Inez. Wasn’t she perfectly lovely? She can wear less than any of us, and wear it well.”

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, if you mean that. But not along the Serpent line of thought. It was mathematical. I was calculating the chances for and against, all the time—whether that indiscreet rose-leaf in front would hold on. Whether the leaf at the back would give. At last I got to counting. She’s laughing—will it last till I get to five-and-twenty? thirty? And I held on to the switches to switch off the light if it gave. The suspense was terrific. Did she hold together after midnight? I left then.”

“I won’t tell you. You don’t deserve to hear,” she said with dignity.

A brief silence.

“What do you mean by saying you poets made us?” she began again, pushing the ash-tray toward me.

“Well, you know, as a matter of fact people long ago didn’t believe you had any souls.”

“Rot!”

“I shouldn’t think of contradicting you, my dear Joan, but it’s a fact.”

“Oh, the Turks, and heathen like that.”

“Well, no—the Church. The Fathers of the Church, met in solemn council, remarked you had no souls. It was a long time ago, however.”

“They didn’t!”

“They did. They treated you as pretty dangerous little animals, with snake’s blood in you. Listen to this: ‘Chrysostom’—a very distinguished saint—‘only interpreted the general sentiment of the Fathers when he pronounced woman to be a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable calamity, a domestic peril, a deadly fascination, a painted ill.’ You see you had found the way to the rouge-box even then.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if they were right,” she said, incredibly. “I’ve often doubted whether I’ve a soul myself. And I’m sure Inez hasn’t.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“At all events, the poets thought you were not as pretty without one. We disagreed with the Church. We always have. So we took you in hand. Your soul was born, my dear Joan, in Provence, about the year 1100.”

She began to be a little interested, but looked at her tiny watch—grey platinum with a frosty twinkle of diamonds.

“Go on. I’ve ten minutes more.”

“Well—we were sorry for you. We were the Troubadours of Provence, and we found you kicked into the mud by the Church, flung out into the world to earn your bread in various disreputable ways—by marriage, and otherwise. You simply didn’t exist. We found your beautiful dead body in the snow and mud. And we picked you up and warmed you and set you on a throne all gold and jewels. Virtually, you never breathed until we wrote poems about you.”

“Jewels! We have always liked jewels,” she sighed.

“We gave you a wonderful crown first, all white and shining. We made you Queen of Heaven, and then even the Church had to eat humble pie and worship you, for you were Mary. We did that—we only. But that wasn’t enough. You opened your eyes, and grew proud and spoiled, and heaven was by no means enough. You wanted more. You would be Queen of Earth, too. And we did it! We gave you a crown of red jewels,—red like heart’s blood,—and we put a sceptre in your hand, and we fell down and worshipped you. And you were Venus. And you have been Queen of Europe and the New World ever since.”

“Of Europe only? Not of Asia? Why not?”

“Oh, they are much too old and wise in Asia. They are much wiser than we. Wiser than the Church. Wiser than the poets—than any of us.”

“What do they say?”

“Well—let’s think. That you have your uses—_uses_. That you are valuable in so far as you bear children and are obedient to your husbands. That, outside that, your beauty has its uses also within limits that are rather strictly marked. That in many rebirths you will develop your soul and be immortal; if you behave, that is! If not—then who shall say? But you have your chance all the time. With them you are neither goddess or fiend. You are just women. Not even Woman.”

“What ghastly materialism!”

“No, no! The happy mean. The perfect wisdom. Meanwhile, you yourselves are all hunting after the ideals of the market-place, the platform, the pulpit. I wonder how many extra rebirths it will cost you! Never mind. Time is long. The gods are never in a hurry, and you will arrive even if you only catch the last train.”

“But this is all fault-finding, and unfair at that. Will you have the goodness to advise? If we stick on our pedestals, you all run off to the frivolers. If we frivol, you weep for the pedestal. What is it you really want? If we knew, we’d try to deliver the goods, I’m sure.”

“I’m not!” I said, and reflected. Then, gathering resolution, “Have you the patience to listen to a story?”

“If it’s a good one. How long will it take?”

“Ten minutes. The author is the Serpent.”

“Then I’ll certainly put off Inez for fifteen minutes. Who’s it about?”—running to the telephone.

“Eve, Lilith, Adam.”

“Who was Lilith?”

“Adam’s first love.”

She sat down, her eyes dancing, her lips demure; the prettiest combination!

“I didn’t know he had one. But I might have guessed. They always have. Go on!”

I went on, and this is the story.

II

“You were speaking of the pedestal. That, of course, was invented in Eden; for Adam early recognized the convenience of knowing where to leave your women and be certain of finding them on your return. So he made the pedestal, decorated it, burned incense before it, and went away upon his own occasions; and when Eve had finished her housekeeping (you may remember, Milton tells us what good little dinners she provided for Adam), she would look bored, climb upon the pedestal obediently, and stand there all day, yawning and wondering what kept him away so long.

“Now, on a memorable day, the Serpent came by, and stopped and looked up at the Lady of the Garden,—who naturally assumed a statuesque pose,—and there was joy in his bright little eyes. But all he said was, ‘May I ask if you find this amusing?’

“And Eve replied, ‘No, not at all. But it is the proper place for a lady.’

“And the Serpent rejoined: ‘Why?’

“And Eve reflected and answered: ‘Because Adam says so.’

“So the Serpent drew near and whispered in his soft sibilant voice: ‘Have you ever heard of Lilith? _She_ does not stand on a pedestal. She gardens with Adam. To be frank, she is a cousin of my own.’

“And this made Eve extremely angry, and she replied sharply: ‘I don’t know what you mean. He and I are alone in Eden. There’s no such person as Lilith. You are only a serpent when all’s said and done. What can you know?’

“And the Serpent replied very gently,—and his voice was as soothing as the murmur of a distant hive of bees,—‘I am only a Serpent, true! But I have had unusual opportunities of observation. Come and eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Long ages ago I tasted the Fruit. The savour of my teeth is sweet on it still.’

“Eve hesitated, and she who hesitates is lost.

“‘I own I should like to know about this Lilith,’ she said. ‘But we were told that fruit is unripe, and I don’t like bitter things. Is it bitter?’

“And the Serpent narrowed his eyes until they shone like slits of emerald.

“‘Sweet!’ he said; ‘come.’

“So she descended from the pedestal, and, guided by the Serpent, stood before that wondrous Tree where every apple shines like a star among its cloudy leaves. And she plucked one, and, tasting it, flung the rest angrily at the Serpent, because it was still a little unripe; and having tasted the Fruit Forbidden, she returned to the pedestal, pondering, with the strangest new thoughts quickening in her brain.

“If Adam noticed anything when he came back that evening, it was only that Eve was a little more silent than usual, and forgot to ask if the thornless roses were striking root. She was thinking deeply, but there were serious gaps in her knowledge.

“The first result of her partial enlightenment was that, though she now only used the pedestal as a clothes-peg and spent all her spare time in stalking Adam and Lilith, she always scrambled up in hot haste when he returned. He could be certain of finding her there when he expected to, and he made a point of that because, as he said,—

“‘No truly nice woman would ever want to leave it and go wandering about the Garden. It does not do for a respectable woman to be seen speaking even to an Archangel nowadays, so often does the Devil assume the form of an Angel of Light. You never can tell. And besides, there is always the Serpent, who, in my opinion, should never have been admitted.’

“Eve said nothing, which was becoming a habit. She only folded her little hands meekly and accepted the homage paid to the pedestal with perfect gravity and decorum. He never suspected until much later that she knew what a comparatively interesting time Lilith was having, and had indeed called on that lady at the other end of the Garden, with friendly results. She was well aware that Lilith’s footing on the garden paths was much more slippery and unsafe than her own on the pedestal. Still, there were particulars which she felt would be useful.

“When Adam realized the facts, he realized also that he was face to face with a political crisis of the first magnitude. If they fraternized, those two, of such different characters and antecedents, there was nothing they could not know—nothing they might not do! The pedestal was rocking to its very foundation. The gardening with Lilith must end. She would demand recognition; Eve would demand freedom. It might mean a conspiracy—a boycott. What was there it might not mean? He scarcely dared to think. Eden was crumbling about him.

“It was a desperate emergency, and as he sat with a racking head, wishing them both in—Paradise, the Serpent happened along.

“‘Surely you look a little harassed,’ he said, stopping.

“Adam groaned.

“‘Is it as bad as all that?’ the Serpent asked, sympathetically.

“‘Worse.’

“‘What have they been at?’ asked the Serpent.

“‘They each know too much, and they will soon know more,’ he rejoined gloomily. ‘Knowledge is as infectious as potato blight.’

“The Serpent replied with alacrity: ‘In this dreadful situation you must know most. It is the only remedy. Come and eat at once of the Fruit of the Tree. I have never understood why you did not do that the moment the Rib took shape.’

“And Adam, like Eve asked: ‘Is it sweet?’

“So the Serpent narrowed his eyes till they shone like slits of ruby, and said, ‘Bitter, but appetizing. Come.’

“And Adam replied: ‘I like bitters before dinner.’

“We all know what happened then; with the one exception that, as a matter of fact, he found the apple a little overripe, too sweet, even cloying; and not even swallowing what he had tasted, he threw the rest away.

“It is just as well to have this version, for it must have been always perfectly clear that Eve, having tasted the apple and thus acquired a certain amount of wisdom, could never have desired to share it with Adam. [“I have thought that myself,” murmured Joan.] No, it was the Serpent’s doing in both cases; though naturally Adam blamed Eve when the question was raised, for she had begun it.

“But what was the result? Well, there were several. It has, of course, been a trial of wits between Adam, Eve, and Lilith ever since. But, in tasting, he had learned one maxim which the Romans thought they invented thousands of years later. It flashed into his mind one day, when he saw the two gathering roses together and found his dinner was half an hour late in consequence. It was simply this: Divide and Rule. Combined, he could never manage them; the sceptre was daily slipping from his hand. Divided, he could. So he put the maxim in practice and sowed division and distrust between Eve and Lilith. They ceased to visit each other, and were cuts when they met. And, naturally, after the Eviction the meetings ceased entirely.

“You will have understood before this, my dear Joan, that Adam was the first mortal to realize the value of competition. He now became the object of spirited competition between the two. Each in her own way outbid the other to secure his regard. Eve’s domestic virtues grew oppressive; Lilith’s recklessness alarming. And it will readily be seen why women have pursued men, rather than the other way over, as we see it in the lower walks of creation.”

“Don’t prose,” said Joan. “What happened?”

“Well, in the last few years, the Serpent, who is always upsetting things, happened along again, and found Eve balancing in extreme discomfort on the pedestal, and Lilith resting, exhausted, after a particularly hard day’s pursuit of Adam. And between them was a wall of icy silence.

“He paused and said with his usual courtesy, ‘Ladies, you both seem fatigued. Is it permitted to ask the reason?’ And his voice had all the murmuring of all the doves of Arcady.

“And Lilith replied angrily: ‘I’m sick of hunting Adam. I always catch him and always know I shall. And he wants to be caught, and yet insists on being hunted before he gives me the rewards. Who can keep up any interest in a game like that? If it were not for Eve, who would take up the running if I dropped it, he might go to Gehenna for me!’”

“Oh, how true! I like Lilith best!” whispered Joan. She was not smoking now.

“‘Strong, but pardonable,’ said the Serpent. ‘And you, dear Lady?’

“And Eve, casting a jealous scowl at Lilith, replied: ‘I’m weary of this abominable pedestal. If you had stood on it off and on for five thousand years, you would realize the cramp it means in the knees. But I daren’t get off, for Adam says no truly nice woman ever would leave it, and it pleases him. If it were not for Lilith, who would be upon it in two seconds, I should be off it in less. And then where should I be? She _will_ go on hunting him, and of course he must have quiet at home.’

“‘And you _will_ go on standing on your imbecile pedestal, and of course such boredom makes him restless abroad,’ retorted the other.

“In the momentary silence that ensued, the Serpent looked up at Lilith and narrowed his eyes till they shone like slits of amethyst.

“‘My cousin,’ he said, ‘our family was old when Adam was created. He is poor game.’

“‘Nobody knows that better than I,’ said Lilith tartly. ‘What do you suppose I hunt him for?’

“‘What, indeed!’ said the Serpent, hissing softly.

“‘Because of Eve—that only!’ she flashed at him. ‘She never shall triumph over me. And what there is to give, he has.’